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Scarlett took a seat in one of the pleather chairs, turning to the pile of magazines on a side table next to her and half-heartedly rifling through them. She almost gasped when she slid one aside to reveal one of those weekly tabloids she always avoided in the grocery store, to see Royce Reynolds’s face staring up at her in living color, the title screaming, Hollywood’s Golden Boy Reveals Battle With Mental Illness. Scarlett felt her stomach drop.
With a quick glance at Haddie to make sure she was still being entertained by the fish, Scarlett grabbed the magazine, folded the cover back, and flipped through the pages until she found the article. She read it quickly, skipping over some of the words so she could take it all in before her daughter grew tired of the fish and came to sit next to her. In a nutshell, Royce Reynolds had recently completed a stay in a private mental facility and, because he’d been photographed leaving the hospital and widespread speculation occurred, he’d made the decision to open up about his lifelong battle with mental illness in the hopes that it might help someone else who, like him, had spent too many years hiding a condition they could not help, nor control. What Scarlett read between the lines, was that the speculation over his stay at the hospital, specifically the rumor that he was battling drug addiction—and losing—had cost him a big role, and the admittance of his mental illness was at least in some part, about damage control and attempting to get ahead of the story by giving his personal account.
“Royce has spent his life battling an illness that he suffers with, through no fault of his own,” his agent was quoted as saying, driving home Scarlett’s assumption. “Despite his overwhelming struggle, he has risen to fame and fortune, moving millions of people with his captivating film roles, and working tirelessly on behalf of his many philanthropic interests. He is a true inspiration, and an American hero. Let it never be said that those struggling similarly cannot work around challenges just as Royce has.”
She stared at the page, a myriad of emotions swirling within her. Whether or not there was a PR spin going on, Scarlett had every compassion in the world for someone suffering a mental illness, even this man who had lied to and used her, and then sent his wife to deal with the consequences. She didn’t care if the majority of citizens thought of Royce Reynolds as an American hero, what she was most focused on was whether or not his unnamed mental illness might have been passed on to their daughter.
Worry sluiced like acid in her gut. Haddie had said mean things to another child. Twice. And then not remembered what she’d done. She’d wet herself and looked petrified when she’d first seen Camden . . . yet had thought nothing of it. Did any of it—or all of it—have to do with a mental illness like Royce had?
Just below his agent’s quote was another, this one from Royce himself. “We realize this is controversial, and it’s not a choice everyone in my position would choose to make, but my wife and I have decided to forgo having children of our own, and instead to adopt our family. I would never want anyone to suffer what I’ve suffered, and there are so many needy kids in the world.”
I would never want anyone to suffer what I’ve suffered. Scarlett felt mildly ill.
Her gaze lingered on a photo that was dated the week before, of Royce and a fellow actor posing with a fan. Apparently, Royce had just started filming a new movie in Los Angeles. Scarlett brought the magazine closer, squinting. She recognized the corner of the hotel they were standing in front of. Wasn’t that the—
“Haddie Lattimore?”
Scarlett jerked her head up, tossing the magazine, front side down on the table next to her and standing quickly.
“Ready?” She smiled at Haddie as she turned, taking her hand, and following the nurse into the exam room.
The doctor entered a few minutes later, an older man in his sixties, completely bald, with a long face, a pair of round spectacles, and an easy smile. “Ms. Lattimore? I’m Dr. Bill Woodrow. Some of the kids call me Dr. Bill. You must be Haddie,” he said after shaking Scarlett’s hand and moving his attention to Haddie.
He squatted down in front of the chair where Haddie sat, resting his elbows on his knees. Haddie drew back, appearing as if she was trying to press herself into the wall. Her eyes widened and her expression soured.
“Uh,” Scarlett said, taking Haddie’s hand in hers. “Haddie can be shy, Dr. Woodrow.” She squeezed Haddie’s hand but Haddie didn’t move, seemingly glued to her chair as she eyed the man sideways.
